


all we have of wings

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one comments. No one dares. Sansa thinks perhaps it’s something like that tale her lady mother told her, about the King and his clothes, and how every man who saw him wearing nothing thought the fault lay in himself and dissembled to keep his pride. No one wishes to be the first to say that the Lord Protector’s baseborn daughter has grown wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all we have of wings

**Author's Note:**

> This was previously posted as part of a collection, but it never quite fit, so I am reposting as a stand alone.

It starts as an itching. She’d thought it was the pull and tug of her clothes at first. They’ve been far too tight of late; Sansa’s been growing so quickly that it dismays her, reminding her as it does that her life is passing her by while she’s trapped here on a lonely mountain halfway into the sky. Her wrists show at her sleeves, her ankles show at her hem. But no, her night shift is light and loose and still there’s that itch, along the ridge of each shoulder blade, a prickle that she can’t scratch away, no matter how she tries.

Then the itch turns into scabs. Sansa is appalled when she feels them with her fingertips one morning, appalled and a bit disgusted. She hadn’t thought she’d scratched so hard. The scabs catch on her clothes and break away to leave bleed bright trails of red through the fabric, angling down her back in blotchy, dotted lines, like someone had been trying to trace her bones through the cloth of her shift.

She’s in her bath when she first feels the feathers; they break free from her skin with a pain like a hundred tiny needles. Suddenly Sansa feels terrible for all the cloth she’s tormented with embroidery all these years, as she imagines this is what it felt like. The tips of the feathers are sharp, tipped with blood as they break through her skin, but only at first. It’s not even a day before they dry and soften, fluttering against her bare skin with a lovely tickle that she feels to her toes.

It’s odd, she supposes, that she tells no one. But then, there’s no one left for Sansa to tell and trust, and this feels like something she’d want secret anyway, at least as long as she can keep it so. There are so few things Sansa has for her own, her body barely counting among them. A secret is too delicious to keep to be given away so freely.

It’s odder still that she should take growing wings with such equanimity. The Sansa she once was might have panicked and cried and run to her mother in teary confusion. But now it seems that wings are the least of her worries, so as odd as it is, she sees little reason to make a fuss.

They grow slowly, but surely, creeping down her shoulders and along her ribs until she can feel them by slipping a hand behind her waist and twisting it up, the way she used to do when she was a girl waiting for her hair to grow long enough to be put up. Now there are feathers mingled alongside the hair that meets her fingertips, broad feathers, wide and strong and only growing stronger. When she’s alone in her chamber, she strips herself bare and stands before the looking glass, twisting herself to get a glimpse of them. Sometimes she pulls her hair over her breasts and poses, liking the brown against the glossy white (though thinking she’d prefer red) and feeling like a silly girl. Being a silly girl has become a luxury.

She manages to hide them for longer than she’d expected. It’s easy enough to dress herself partway before any maid arrives to assist her, and the maids are too glad of the lightened load to make a peep about Sansa’s unusual habits. It’s only when the curving wings begin to make her corset sit lumpy that anyone might notice, and even then Sansa manages to keep them hidden until they’re too long to be held down without bursting forth from the waist of her bodice like an old-fashioned bustle. Then there’s no more hiding them, and Sansa surrenders to the inevitable feeling almost cheerful.

It takes a mere afternoon and evening with scissors and a needle and thread to adjust her wardrobe. By evening, she’s surrounded by a colorful nest of scraps and her bodice is fitted almost perfectly around the wings that she unfurls now into the cool air of the room. She feels proud when she’s done, and very resourceful, like she’s truly a Stone, rather than a pampered Stark. She thinks even Jon might compliment her efforts, and the thought warms her.

No one comments. No one dares. Sansa thinks perhaps it’s something like that tale her lady mother told her, about the King and his clothes, and how every man who saw him wearing nothing thought the fault lay in himself and dissembled to keep his pride. No one wishes to be the first to say that the Lord Protector’s baseborn daughter has grown wings. Despite the surprising lack of comment, Petyr wastes no time in ordering her to stay in her chambers and have her meals brought to her solar, so that as few people know of her condition as possible. Even Sweetrobin is barred from entering – little tongues make big chatter, in Petyr’s words – and it’s a relief to Sansa to be only herself for once, her sleep and her thoughts and her peace undisturbed. Petyr himself rarely visits. She sees the way he looks at her, as if he thinks her wings disgusting. He won't even come near her anymore. That would be reason enough for Sansa to like them. But she loves them all on their own.

It’s wonderful to be free to stretch them now, to let them lie along her back unbound throughout each day, with no worries at who might see. It occurs to her that it’s almost as if she’s become the little bird she was so often called in her old life. But these are no small wings for a little songbird. They’re massive and white, downy and snowy as swan’s wings, and twice as large. They are not delicate but powerful, as powerful as Sansa has wished she could be since the day they took Lady from her and none strong enough to stop them did. Her wings move as easily and thoughtlessly as if they’re her fingers or toes, as if they’ve been part of her body her whole life. She moves them without thought or effort, folding them neatly against her back or unfurling them to their full span and glorying in the stretch she feels deep in her chest. She takes up more space in the world than is her allotted share, and she refuses to feel even a little bad about it.

She waits until she’s absolutely sure they’re strong enough before she even considers flying, and then she waits a bit longer. First she only stands out on the terrace, holding them open, feeling the muscles in her back twitch and tighten as she resists the pull of the wind. It’s harder than she expected; they’d moved so easily before, without a conscious thought from her. Now she has to concentrate, focusing her mind on each little twitch and pull, learning how they work; how she works. It makes her ache each night with the unaccustomed effort, but it feels good. She never lets anyone see her, taking meticulous care in concealing even the idea that she could fly. They’d lock her up and never let her free if they knew, so it’s another secret, one thrilling rather than delicious, dangerous rather than a luxury.

They’re long enough that they brush the backs of her knees now. Soon she’ll be ready to fly. Something in her, some instinct, knows that the only way to learn is to try. That she must push herself from her nest and let her wings carry her the way they’re meant to. Perhaps they could carry her to find Arya, wherever she may be, or over the snowy wastes of the North to find Jon and tell him that she is a bastard now too, that he is her brother in a new way now. Perhaps her wings will carry her home. Yes, home. That’s where she wants to be. Soon she’ll step to the edge and she’ll look down at the tops of the clouds. Someday soon she’ll leap and then she’ll be free.


End file.
